


Deus Ex presents: Messin' with Pritchard

by Anendda_Rysden



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Crack, Explicit Language, Gen, Humor, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-27 05:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12074655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anendda_Rysden/pseuds/Anendda_Rysden
Summary: That's it. He'd finally gone too far. Sent one too many emails. And Jensen's had it up to his auged-out eyeballs. Today he's slithered into the vents to plot his revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge. Sarif thinks it's about time. Malik's brought the popcorn.





	Deus Ex presents: Messin' with Pritchard

**Author's Note:**

> What it says on the tin. Set somewhere in the first game.  
> I had WAY too much fun writing this.

Jensen had faced down a lot of crap, but this- this _abomination_ took the cake. He glared at his adversary, sizing it up for possible weakness, deciding how to approach. Should he approach the target slowly, or dispose of it quickly and with extreme prejudice? Jensen placed both hands on the countertop and leaned forward menacingly, his glasses clicking into place over his eyes.

“All right, you sonuvabitch,” he growled. “Let’s get this over with.”

The jar of Cyberboost stared back mockingly. Jensen unscrewed the lid and peeked inside at the suspicious white sludge. Calling it comparable to mayonnaise would have been an insult to the mayo. Scooping some up on a spoon, Jensen decided that he well and truly hated it, but given his pantry’s current lack of Cyberboost bars and with a mission to Hong Kong looming on the horizon, he didn’t have much of a choice. He’d just have to suck it up. He’d crawled through more than his share of sewers and lived, after all. How bad could CyberSludge be?

Jensen stuck the spoon in his mouth–

–and nearly spat the horrid shit back out. He forced himself to swallow and take another spoon. It was like eating a jar of snot. Why hadn’t Bill Taggart seized onto this crap for his campaign propaganda? Jensen could see the idiot holding a jar of it now. _“Neuropozyne is the least of your worries, ladies and gentleman. Get Augmented and you’ll be forced to eat this atrocity, this crime against nature!”_

“Fuck this,” Jensen growled, smacking the lid back on again. All things considered, he’d rather go crawling through the sewer. He raked through his cabinets again hoping to find that illusive bar of Cyberboost, which had apparently sprouted miniature augs and crawled behind the cereal to hide. His search came up empty, however. Just like he knew it would. Jensen glared at the jar again. Where the hell did LIMB clinics get off charging a fortune for this crap? Apparently it was beyond the technology of modern man to throw in some strawberry flavoring or something.

Leaving the jar in the kitchen, Jensen stalked from his apartment.

Outside, the streets of Detroit were dirty and cold, every crevice soaked with rain and neon light. Scattered amongst the police officers on the beat and civilians smoking under the streetlights was the usual handful of vagrants, many of them digging through garbage cans or lingering near the warmth of nearby buildings. The riots had cooled down, thank God, but tensions were still high. Flipping up the collar on his jacket, Jensen hurried to his destination, stray drops of rain peppering his face.

In direct contrast to the decay all around it, the Sarif Industries building was golden and inviting, built of shining glass and warm, marbled linoleum. Crossing the lobby, Jensen nodded to the receptionist and continued up the stairs. Hopefully, the cafeteria would have a few bars of Cyberboost on hand. Otherwise, it was down to the LIMB clinic to pick up a box. Not that the protein bars were that good to begin with, but at least the taste was somewhat mitigated by the addition of granola.

Coming around the second floor, he spotted Pritchard talking to one of the women from the research labs. And if the look of supreme chastisement showing on the young woman’s face was any indication, Jensen knew exactly what Pritchard was doing out of the confines of his lair. He suppressed the urge to groan, or else cloak himself and dive behind the nearest potted plant. For a half-second he actually considered it, but then–

“Jensen!” Pritchard called, abandoning the girl in search of better prey. She scurried off as he rounded on Jensen, waving the pocket secretary in his face. “Look at this, will you?”

“It’s a pocket secretary. I’ve got one, too,” Jensen replied, not breaking stride. He was going to the cafeteria come hell or high water, even if he had to walk over Pritchard to get there.

“Funny,” Pritchard deadpanned. He fell in beside the taller man, much to Jensen’s annoyance. “This,” he exclaimed, waving the pocket secretary again, “is the mess I had to clean up this morning because nobody in this building is able to follow security procedures!”

“What’s wrong, Francis? You get Russian brides in your Inbox again?”

“It’s not funny, Jensen! I had to defrag two hard drives because some idiot decided to download unregistered software on a company computer! They didn’t even run it through the filters and they wonder why they’ve got an infected computer and two worms running loose on the network!”

“Cry for me,” Jensen told him dryly, opening the door to the cafeteria. “You handle shit even the crypto department has trouble with, and you expect me to believe you had a rough morning over some malware?”

“That’s not the point!” Pritchard fumed. There were a couple of people occupying the cafeteria lounge, but they couldn’t get out of the room fast enough, abandoning Jensen to his fate. He could hardly blame them. When Pritchard was on his monthly rag, everyone with half a brain knew to take cover under the nearest desk and wait until the fallout was over. The head technician was literally hell on wheels. Jensen was surprised Pritchard didn’t jump on that motorcycle of his, light the goddamned thing on fire, and go squealing through the building with a scythe in one hand and a stack of his God-fearing security edicts clenched in his teeth.

“If malware can get into the network, there’s always the possibility of something worse!” Pritchard continued, folding his arms. “We’ve got every biomedical corporation in the world – not to mention half a hundred hacks in their garages – constantly testing the firewalls. Do you have any idea how many threats my security protocols turn aside every hour? And every time somebody goes _surfing_ on the Internet, that’s one more weakness somebody can try to exploit! Jensen? Are even you listening to me?”

“Not really,” said Jensen, rifling the cupboards. He found an abundance of instant ramen, boxes of tea and instant coffee, and a bag of plastic utensils, but no Pro-Energy bars. He eyed the refrigerated safe near the fridge and immediately dismissed it. The only thing in there was more CyberSludge. Pritchard clenched his jaw, dark eyes smoldering as if hoping to burn Jensen alive by the sheer force of his gaze alone.

“Jensen–”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Francis, how many times are we going to go through this?” Jensen demanded, effectively cutting off anything Pritchard had been about to say. He knew the man had a legitimate argument, but he’d pushed it down his throat so many times it was really starting to piss him off.

Putting his back to Pritchard, Jensen walked over to the fridge and began poking around in there. “Even IF a virus got into the network,” he said, “and even IF it made it past the firewalls, I’m sure you’d corner it in some backdoor node and exterminate it long before it did any damage. That’s what Sarif pays you to do, remember? Or are you just afraid your high-and-mighty security procedures aren’t up to snuff?”

Pritchard’s eyes switched over from imaginary death beams to high-octane flamethrowers. Or at least they would have, if they’d invented an aug for that. Thankfully for Jensen, however, the military had yet to request that their soldiers be able to burn down shit just by glaring at it.

“You think you’re so damn clever, don’t you?” Pritchard growled. “Well, you know what? I hope the mother of all viruses gets into this building. And I hope it comes from _your_ computer. And when that happens, I’m going to laugh when Sarif tosses you out by your goddamn ear!”

“You do that,” said Jensen mildly.

Pritchard looked absolutely mutinous. His hand twitched, clenching around his pocket secretary as if he was thinking of bludgeoning Jensen over the head with it – and then keep on beating him until he stopped moving. Ignoring the peril he was in, however, Jensen continued his search of the fridge until Pritchard angrily stormed from the room, audibly grinding his teeth.

Jensen heaved a sigh. Getting under people’s skin was one of that aggravating prick’s finest talents. And most of the time he wasn’t even trying. Just Pritchard being Pritchard was usually enough to drive half the building to plot his demise around the water cooler. Jensen was certain that the only thing keeping Pritchard from having an unfortunate work-related “accident” was the constant debate on whether or not it would be considered murder or charity.

Pushing aside a carton of chocolate milk, Jensen concluded that fridge contained an assortment of bagged lunches, energy drinks, sodas and yogurts, but not a single Cyberboost bar. He irritably swung the door shut, wondering if this was the norm or if they’d just picked today to magically disappear. He turned away just as the words _Incoming Signal_ flashed across his internal HUD.

_“Adam! How you doing, son?”_

“Boss,” Jensen acknowledged. “As well as I can be doing, I guess.”

 _“Good, good. You ready for Hong Kong?”_ asked Sarif.

“Almost. I need refueling and for the life of me I can’t find a single bar of Pro-Energy anywhere in this goddamn cafeteria. I’m heading to the LIMB clinic right now.”

_“Have you tried the safe? There’s always a jar or two in there.”_

Jensen frowned. “You don’t honestly expect me to eat that shit, do you?”

Sarif chuckled warmly. _“I know the taste isn’t going to win any awards, son, but you need to get it down. You’ve got a lot of augments and one or two bars aren’t going to cut it, I’m afraid. Try taking it with some food. Or just mix it in with a Coke and knock it back like a trooper.”_

Jensen couldn’t imagine this did the Coke any favors. “You’re a cruel man, you know that?” he grumbled.

 _“Athene tells me it’s a luxury of the job,”_ said Sarif, his tone betraying a smile. But beneath the friendly banter, Jensen could easily read Sarif’s almost fatherly desire to see that he was properly taken care of. He felt himself smile a little in return.

“I do what I can, boss. No promises,” he said.

Jensen ended the transmission, turning to glare at the safe by the fridge. Punching in his four-digit code, he opened the door hoping to find it empty, just so he’d have an excuse to go grab a bar instead. But today just wasn’t his lucky day. Two jars of CyberSludge sat there mockingly. Scowling, Jensen grabbed one and swung the safe shut, returning to the fridge to reevaluate its selection of beverages. Orange juice, Red Bull, Pritchard’s MiO, several cans of soda… wait, back up. _Pritchard’s MiO._

And since Pritchard had successfully accomplished his daily mission to piss him off, Jensen had no qualms about thieving the prick’s drink mix. Tit-for-a-tat, as they say. He unscrewed the Cyberboost lid and emptied several squirts of MiO into the pristine white sludge, but it took the whole bottle before he was satisfied with the concoction.

A mistrusting evaluation revealed that said sludge now tasted like… well, it tasted like crap. Orange crap to be precise. Jensen made a face and walked out of the cafeteria with it crammed under one arm, eating as he went. The upper offices of Sarif Industries were humming at their usual level of calm, steady activity. Several people waved to Jensen as he passed and while couldn’t say he agreed with everything David Sarif did, he could say that regardless of what went on in Detroit, the turmoil of the outside world just couldn’t seem to reach inside Sarif Industries’ golden glow.

Reaching his office, Jensen sat down to check his emails. His Inbox contained all the usual stuff he expected to find there, including… Jensen narrowed his eyes.

Pritchard wouldn’t.

_To: Adam Jensen <ajensen@sarifindustries.com> _

_Cc: <dsarif@sarifindustries.com> <mathene@sarifindustries.com> <mreed@sarifindustries.com>… _

_It has come to my attention that many people in the building are using company computers to download unauthorized software and/or shareware WITHOUT running them through the filters, WITHOUT setting up the proper protocols. Also despite my repeated recommendations, many of you are leaving your computers unlocked when leaving your desk. The safety and security of Sarif Industries is YOUR responsibility. Therefore, it is my recommendation that all employees be subjected to a strict enforcement policy regarding the use of company computers for personal use. See attached file for policies and procedures._

_Chief of CyberSecurity,_

_Frank Pritchard_

He would.

Jensen leaned back in his chair, irritably drumming his fingers on the desk. Judging by the timestamp, the assclown had zoomed directly from the cafeteria to his office in order to send that scathing little email. The gall of the man was unbelievable. Jensen dug a heaping spoonful CyberSludge from the jar and stuck it in his mouth, frowning around the spoon. This was the last and final straw. He was going to get Pritchard for this one, the pushy, annoying little prick.

Plan of action already forming, Jensen got up from his desk, opened the nearby vent cover, and shimmied inside pushing his jar in front of him. Reaching a T-junction several feet back, Jensen turned right, following the ductwork past other offices until the vent turned vertical, dropping ten to twelve feet to the next floor. With the space too cramped for an Icarus drop, Jensen decided to take the fall head-on, feeling the jolt of landing travel through his augmented legs. He almost lost his grip on the CyberSludge – not that it would have been a great loss to humanity.

Dropping back into a crouch, Jensen continued along the duct, marking his progress on his HUD and stopping occasionally to peer through the vents. Up ahead the duct opened up into a maintenance hub about four or five feet wide. Encased metal wires were bolted along the sides of the duct, snaking along to either the ladder at one end of the hub or the large rectangular grille at the other. Jensen made way towards the grille and peered out between the slats, glasses glinting menacingly, to where Pritchard’s cluttered office spread out below.

Against the wall was Pritchard himself, busily scribbling his meaningless techno drivel on a transparent whiteboard. Jensen placed a hand flat on the grille, using the tactile sensors in his fingers to judge its strength. A good punch and the thing would go hurtling across the room to hit the opposite wall. Pritchard wouldn’t know whether to shit or fall back in it. The thought caused a rare grin to spread across Jensen’s face, but like all deadly predators he was well versed in the art of patience, knowing that waiting might provide a better opportunity. Jensen eased himself down to his belly, situating himself so he could comfortably peer between the slats. His prey stopped to shuffle an untidy stack of papers, totally oblivious to his presence. Planting the jar of CyberSludge in front of him, Jensen grudgingly resumed his attempt to gag it down.

And so he waited, watching Pritchard move back and forth across his office, occasionally stopping to bitch at somebody over his implant. Jensen swallowed a spoonful of sludge and reached in for more just his HUD blinked to life. _“Adam,”_ Sarif’s warm baritone filtered through the connection. _“You having any luck with that Cyberboost?”_

 _“Yes, Mother,”_ said Jensen dryly, using the subdermal chip in his throat to answer lest speaking out loud reveal his position. _“Just don’t expect me to write home about it.”_

 _“Good to hear, son. And just out of curiosity, Athene’s gotten several emails about hiring an exterminator. Seems like there’s rats the size of Rottweilers running around in the vents. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”_ The mirth in Sarif’s voice wasn’t that difficult to read.

 _“You make a habit of tracking my GPL signal inside the building, boss?”_ Jensen deadpanned.

 _“Only because I care,”_ said Sarif. _“You can’t expect me not to notice when my Chief of Security phases through the wall of his office. And I know how friendly you are with the ventilation system. So may I ask why you’re currently hovering in the non-existent space just outside Frank’s office?”_

 _“Waiting to catch him with his pants down,”_ Jensen replied.

_“Oh? I didn’t know you swung that way.”_

Jensen snorted. _“With Francis? I’d rather die. But I’ve gotten one too many email lectures from that bastard and I’m going to lie here until I catch him doing something stupid, like violating his own security protocols. Then I’m going to pop out of this vent and gloat my ass off. Good enough?”_

Sarif burst out laughing. _“So this is what I pay you for,”_ he observed wryly.

_“Just doing my job. Call it investigating a potential breach of security. Jensen out.”_

The connection terminated, Jensen went back to Pritchard-watching. The head technician had moved from his whiteboard to his motorcycle, leather jacket flung over a stack of boxes and his pristine white shirt rolled up to his elbows. Taking a spare part out of a box, he rolled underneath the chassis and proceeded to install it. Jensen abruptly found himself musing on the day he’d been hired by Sarif. His first impression of Pritchard definitely hadn’t been that of a motorcycle buff. Without knowing the man personally, he’d thought him more inclined to piss himself if one happened to rev up nearby. Go figure.

_“Hey, spy boy. You there?”_

_“I’m here, Malik,”_ said Jensen, the transmission jolting him out of his thoughts. _“Need something?”_

 _“Just to tell you it looks like your flight’s gonna be delayed,”_ said Malik. _“I did a prelim check of the bird and picked up some corrosion in the left thruster. Nothing serious, but I’m not gonna make two trips halfway around the world without getting it fixed, you know?”_

_“How long?”_

_“Later tonight if you’re in a hurry, but I figured you might want to wait till morning. It’s your call.”_

_“Tomorrow’s fine,”_ Jensen replied. _“I’ve got something to keep me occupied.”_

_“Good enough. And just where are you, anyway? I spent ten minutes combing the building for you before I decided to call.”_

_“In the vent behind Pritchard’s desk,”_ said Jensen, suppressing the rare urge to smirk.

 _“In the…?”_ Malik laughed softly. _“Okay, Jensen, I’ll bite. Why are you in the vent behind Pritchard’s desk?”_

 _“Because he’s an asshole that needs to be taught a lesson,”_ Jensen declared, stirring his jar of sludge. _“Like I just told Sarif, we’ll see how eager he is to send me more of his goddamn emails when he violates one and I catch him red-handed.”_

_“You really think he will?”_

_“It’s worth a try. And if he doesn’t, I’m still going to bust this grille down and scare the shit out of him.”_

Malik sniggered. _“What are you, six?”_

_“Aren’t you the one always telling me to lighten up? Consider this my attempt.”_

He ended the transmission, rolling his neck to keep it from getting stiff. Below in Pritchard’s office, an intern came through the door holding a cup of Starbucks coffee. “Here you go, sir. Double mocha café latte with extra cream.”

Beneath his motorcycle, Pritchard barked something about leaving it on the desk. Setting the coffee exactly where he was told, the intern hastily backed out of the office. Jensen rolled his eyes, noticing that _Thank You_ apparently wasn’t included in Pritchard’s lexicon. _Double mocha I’m-a-prissy-bastard latte, huh?_ Jensen mentally stashed this information away for later use, wondering where Pritchard typically got his coffee and it if would be possible to interfere with it somehow.

Jensen poked at his CyberSludge with the spoon. He could have gone for a cup of coffee right now instead of this jar full of gelatinous orange-flavored snot some idiot had the balls to actually call food. Checking his internal HUD, Jensen saw that his capacitors only half full. He sighed heavily as Pritchard slid out from under his motorcycle, wiping his hands on a greasy towel.

_Clang-thump. Clang-thump._

Jensen craned his head around, surprised to realize that somebody was working their way up the vent. Who would be climbing around in here besides him? Jensen tried to think of what he’d say if building maintenance caught him lying here peeping through Pritchard’s vent, because hey, THAT wasn’t even remotely suspicious. He was on the verge of activating his cloak when a head of black hair poked around the corner.

“Malik?”

The pilot flashed him a grin, dark eyes sparkling mischievously. “Got room for one more?”

Jensen scooted over to make room as Malik crawled forward on her elbows, zippers jingling over the papery scrape of her flight suit. She settled herself directly beside him, grinning with the air of a 3rd grader presented with a roll of toilet paper, or a hawk preparing to swoop down upon unlucky prey. Jensen had seen that particular glint in her eyes before and seemed to remember it resulting in his asking to be reminded never to piss her off.

“What are you doing here, Malik?”

“Can’t let you have all the fun, can I? If this goes down like I’m hoping it does, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’re not the only one Frank pisses off, you know.” She gave him a playful punch in the arm. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this!”

“Pot meets kettle,” Jensen remarked, watching Pritchard to make certain Malik’s arrival hadn’t attracted his attention. But the head technician remained blissfully ignorant of the scrutiny he was receiving, coming around his desk to take a sip of coffee and check his emails. “How’d you find your way up here, anyway?” he asked Malik.

“Wasn’t that hard,” she whispered, shrugging. “Helipad’s on the same floor, so I just crawled around till I found you. You’re not that hard to miss.” She glanced at the jar of Cyberboost he was eating out of. “You actually eat that stuff raw?”

“Not if I can help it,” Jensen grunted.

 

\----------------------------------------------

Several dozen floors above, David Sarif was trying to get some work done. _Trying_ being the operative word. Saving the document he was working on, he reached across the desk to rifle through the stack of pocket secretaries Athene had deposited in his Inbox. As per the usual they consisted of stock reports, R &D reports, and every other report yet conceived by corporate man, all of them jockeying for his attention.

Sarif grunted, wondering if he could make them go away by hiding them under the rug. To make matters worse, the image of his Security Chief prowling the vents kept popping to the front of his mind. He chuckled involuntarily. It was nothing if not distracting. Sarif glanced at his email, the top of his Inbox stack still displaying an annoying message from Pritchard.

URGENT: OPEN IMMEDIATELY!

He had the nerve to type it all in caps, too. Sarif’s mouth twitched at the corners. He could sympathize with Jensen’s desire for payback. Oh, yes indeed. He knew the man would wait all day for his chance his pounce, and the resulting fallout promised to be as funny as hell. Sarif got to his feet. The reports could wait. Being CEO had to have _some_ perks, after all. He glanced around the room. Ah. There.

“Athene, hold my calls, would you?”

“Yes, sir. What are you…?”

Athene trailed off, eyebrows crawling bemusedly into her hairline as Sarif clambered on top of her desk. Standing on tiptoes, he opened the ceiling vent and reached inside to grab the edge. With a grunt he tried to heave himself up, only for his heels to thump back down on the desk, juddering the computer. Athene put a well-manicured hand over her coffee as Sarif glared up at the duct. Ahem. Well, he wasn’t exactly Jensen, now was he? He really should try to lose those ten extra pounds one of these days. Sarif offered his secretary a sheepish grin.

“Give me a boost, hon?”

Athene dutifully laced her hands together to form a stirrup, hoisting Sarif just high enough for him to clamber into the vent, expensive loafers kicking as they sought a toehold. Athene wisely sat back down before said toehold turned out to be her face, peering up at Sarif as he closed the vent with a wink.

Athene turned back to her computer without a word, her eyes filled with a kind of smirking, unholy glee. David Sarif was a powerful man, but he had a charmingly simple view of life. He believed in baseball games, apple pie, and a world where mummifying an unlucky neighbors’ house with toilet paper was considered a viable form of revenge. Whatever shenanigans he had planned, she was sure a copy would land in her Inbox before the day was out.

 

\----------------------------------------------

“You ever seen Pritchard with a girlfriend? I mean, like ever?”

“He’s got plenty of women. They’re called Me, Myself, and I. And they’re all bitches,” said Jensen, handing the spoon to Malik.

She dug out a glob of CyberSludge with a sound similar to a bog sucking at someone’s shoe. “We should set him up on a date,” she said, licking the back of the spoon. “All we’d have to do was make sure she was wearing a mirror and he’d be out of our lives forever. And you’re such a crybaby, by the way. This stuff’s not _that_ bad.”

Jensen glowered at her. “You sicken me.”

“I aim to please. How’d you get it in orange, anyway?”

“Francis.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning he volunteered his stupid drink mix before I threw his ass off the roof. Thought maybe he could use his overblown prick as a pogo stick when he hit the crete.”

Malik clapped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter. “You stole his drink mix? You’re so dead,” she choked, knowing full well how vehemently Pritchard guarded the crap. She was surprised he didn’t tie hungry Rottweilers in front of the company fridge, but then again, nobody but Jensen had the balls to take his stuff anyway, so maybe the dogs were just overkill.

“Maybe he watches porn instead of going on a date,” she offered.

“I hope so,” said Jensen, his low baritone vibrating with positively devilish snicker. Below in Pritchard’s office, their unwitting prey was eviscerating his latest kill – a cute redhead from the Typhoon labs. Jensen felt sorry for her, but he was certain the girl would be properly taken care of once she got out of the immediate line of fire. Sarif Industries had a well-established Pritchard Abuse support group, which was usually followed by an inspirational session of Killing Pritchard Together. Jensen’s teeth glinted between his lips. He poked Malik for the spoon. The CyberSludge had melted to the consistency of soft-serve ice cream, which oddly enough seemed to improve the flavor. Jensen ate a few more spoonfuls, wondering what other flavors Pritchard kept in the fridge. This could easily become routine.

_Clang. Clang. Clang._

“For crying out loud… how far down does this thing go?”

_Clang. Clang._

Jensen and Malik shared a baffled look, craning their heads around to stare down the vent. A pair of loafers came into view, feeling around for the next rung on the ladder. The loafers were followed by a pair of legs, then a well-dressed torso belonging to none other than–

“Boss?”

David Sarif peered around the ladder, pocket secretary in hand. “There you are. Whew… god…” the man paused to catch his breath. “This crap’s too much like work, son.”

Jensen couldn’t have been more surprised if Pritchard had jumped onto his desk and started a strip tease. Sarif awkwardly dismounted the ladder and made his way towards them, forcing the bewildered pair to scoot apart to give him room. Thankfully the hub was on the bigger side of things. “If I’d have known this was a double date, I would’ve invited Athene,” Sarif whispered, grinning broadly at them. “You kids behaving in here?”

“I think my augs just malfunctioned,” said Malik, staring.

Jensen wholeheartedly agreed, his glasses retracting just to make sure that Sarif wasn’t some weird artifact on his HUD. Nope, still there – which begged the question what exactly was the CEO of Sarif Industries doing creeping around in the ventilation system. “Not to be disrespectful or anything, boss, but what the hell?”

Sarif chuckled, obviously enjoying himself. “Spirit of adventure, son. What can I say?” He turned off his pocket secretary, but not before Jensen caught a glimpse of the building schematics.

“Please tell me you didn’t try to come down the main air shaft,” he rumbled, amused.

“You mean the death-trap with the turbine at the bottom? Yeah, we’ve met,” said Sarif dryly. “I got lost twice trying to find my way around the damn thing.”

Jensen shook his head, mostly to hide his smile as the headline of tomorrow’s evening news flashed through his head: _CEO David Sarif, age 40, found chopped to meat inside his own building. This is Eliza Cassan, reporting to you Live from Picus._ He stretched out, their shoulders bumping. This day just kept getting better and better.

“Make sure you record this,” Sarif advised gleefully. “For posterity purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” said Jensen, his eyes glittering with sudden interest. Their clueless prey was on the move and the three conspirators went very quiet, craning forward on their elbows. Pritchard was sitting down at his desk, digging through his drawer for what turned out to be a pair of headphones. Nice, _expensive_ headphones. He put them on and cast a furtive glance around the office before logging into his browser.

“Final Fantasy?” Malik read aloud. “What it that, porn?”

Jensen’s lips peeled back in a smirk. “Move,” he whispered, pushing the jar of CyberSludge aside. Sarif gripped it with both hands, positively vibrating with anticipation as Jensen inched forward, every fiber in his augments coiled and ready to spring. Pritchard settled lazily into his chair, certain of his privacy, and Jensen suppressed the maddening urge to laugh. _DarkWiz@rdWendell? Jesus._

Malik stuffed a finger between her teeth, trembling with silent giggles. Jensen curled his hand into a fist, the servos in his arm creaking with the pressure. His HUD chirped merrily: **_Wall Crusher subroutine online._**

It was complete overkill. The vent blasted free of its moorings and hit the opposite wall with a thunderous crash. Pritchard let out a scream and rocketed to his feet, his knees banging the underside of his desk so hard the entire unit almost flipped over. He sat down again faster than a game of Whack-a-Mole, missed his chair completely, and landed hard on his ass. “JESUSMARYMOTHEROFCHRISTWHATTHEFUCK!?!”

Jensen’s grin became positively evil as Pritchard scuttled away like a drunken crab, his feet tangling in loose power cords and bringing a barrage of equipment down from his desk – further adding to his panicked retreat. _Run, prick. Run!_

Finally running out of floor, Pritchard flattened himself in a corner and put his dukes up to fight, casting a frightened glance at the mangled grille on the other side of the room. He stared at it for a moment, the gears in his brain grinding before the proverbial lightbulb went off and he whipped around to look at the vent.

Jensen heaved himself out to land in a dramatic crouch. “Francis!” he exclaimed loudly, as if they were in the middle of an Illuminati bomb scare. “I’ve detected a security breach coming from this office.”

He swiveled his head around, his gaze accusingly coming to rest on Pritchard’s computer.

“J-Jensen?” Pritchard sounded as though he couldn’t decide whether to be pissed or relieved that it _was_ Jensen and not a horde of terrorists, or possibly an escaped gorilla. There was a few seconds delay before his horsey face contorted and he scrambled to his feet, sliding on a pile of CDs. “Jensen you _stupidsonuvabitch_ , what the hel–!” He slipped violently, legs hydroplaning out to either side like a gymnast doing the splits. Pritchard barely saved himself from a face-plant, his ponytail flopping over one shoulder to drink spilt coffee from the floor. Jensen mentally awarded himself bonus points for getting the latte.

“Hmm. Looks pretty bad,” Jensen rumbled severely, struggling to keep a straight face. Pritchard's headphones had pulled loose during his mad exodus and the music blaring through the office was absolutely, deliciously incriminating. “I’ll have to take this down to crypto and quarantine the whole thing before anything spreads to the network.”

Jensen seized the tower in both hands and _uprooted_ it, plugs and wires dangling as he tucked it under one arm and headed from the office at a brisk walk. Still attached, Pritchard’s keyboard leapt from his desk and onto to the floor, clattering along the tile until it snagged against the doorframe. Gripping the cord, Jensen gave it a tug. The keyboard sprang into the hall after him.

“You miserable bastard, I’m going to KILL you!” Pritchard snarled, heaving himself up at what looked to be great cost to his nuts. “You hear me, Jensen? Just you wait. I’ll have you deactivated! I’ll have your arms shoved up your ASS!”

It took everything Jensen had to keep walking, his face twisting with the laughter he was trying to stifle. He wondered if Pritchard was man enough to chase him down and throw a punch at him, but the red-faced technician just stood in the doorway of his office and spluttered. “T-That is it!” He screeched, palming the implant in his ear. “Oh, you’ve done it this time, Jensen. There’ll be no saving you this time! Sarif? Sarif, it’s Pritchard! Get down to my office and see what Jensen did to my… to my…”

Pritchard trailed off, his gaze tracking upwards to the vent, following the sound of laughter. David Sarif waved out at him. “Afternoon, Frank,” he chortled, grinning. Beside him, Malik was slowly dying from asphyxiation, head pillowed on her arms as she wheezed.

Pritchard made a sound exactly like a cat being run over on the highway, the perfect end, in Sarif’s opinion, to an already perfect afternoon.


End file.
